


Original Sin

by Khadgarfield



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Bottom!Den, Confessional, D/s dynamic, M/M, Oral Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khadgarfield/pseuds/Khadgarfield
Summary: You cant have good without evil, and you cant have either without a way to define them.Arguably.Lets just go with that for as long as it takes to read this I guess.
Relationships: Denathrius/Renathal (Warcraft)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	Original Sin

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hi hello this fic features the following somewhat controversial themes:  
> *religion and religious imagery  
> *blood and whipping in the kinky sense  
> *den/ren fucking
> 
> so if you arent feeling any of these things I suggest you not read this fic thank you <3 
> 
> STAY SAFE, BE SENSIBLE, YOU ARE THE CURRATOR OF YOUR OWN ONLINE EXPERIENCE  
> xoxo your friend garf

**The blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil: so do stripes the inward parts of the belly.  
** _Proverbs 20:30_

In the beginning, Denathrius bestowed knowledge on his creations. He taught them how to count, so they might tally offences, and he taught them to read and write, so they might keep records of the things they witnessed. He taught them, above all things, the difference between right and wrong, and the origin of sin. By doing so he divided the primordial into spheres of good and evil, forging degrees by which to measure the transgressions of others. As Renathal grew older, though, in the shadow of eons passing him by, the lines between those definitions began to seem as illusionary as the throne Denathrius sat upon. Like a pillar saint, he had elevated himself to be a beacon of virtue, yet beneath silks and furs and jewels glittering in the candlelight, he kept his own private sacraments. When they were alone, Renathal knew he made penance in lieu of confession.

At least concupiscence was a vice they both shared equally.

Denathrius looked no less magnificent than always, though, with his chest heaving under the strain of his shortcomings. His nipples were rigid beads, pierced with sinvyr rings, and between his thighs his desire took the form of rigid, dripping flesh. The cilice on his thigh pierced his skin, when his muscles clenched and flexed in motion, and the essence of his body was the colour of anima - it beaded around the metal pins like precious gems encrusted a necklace.

“How unseemly for you to take pleasure in your duty,” he simpered, hair framing his face in a pretty cascade the colour of terrestrial snow. His teeth were pointed, lips full and flushed, and Renathal wanted nothing more than to bite them and taste the sweetness of his Master’s decadence. Rather than try, he curled his fingers tightly around one of the coiling horns at his crown. They had been doing this for centuries, but it still felt strange to look down on him, and it was stranger still to have him kneeling supplicant, prone at Renathal’s feet.

“How unseemly of you to take pleasure in your penance, Sire.”

Renathal moved the point of his toe to press between his legs, the rounded tip of his boot pushed Denathrius’ cock up firmly against his belly. His Master’s shoulders quaked under the duress of contact, his head tipping back as far as it could with Renathal still grasping one of his horns. The sweat beginning to break on his forehead wetted the roots of his hair, and gave his hallowed face a glowing sheen. When his eyes tipped back in delight and agony, Renathal felt the tug of his own desire merge with sympathy for his shame. He could tell that Denathrius found this shameful - it was patent in the flush that marred his cheeks. He pressed harder with his foot, and Denathrius hissed. His gaze swung around again to fix on Renathal’s, a delirious glimmer multiplying in pits of fire. 

“Anything to remain virtuous,” He panted, “You could learn some things from me, my dear Prince.”

“How prideful of you, Sire.”

“My greatest pride is to have wrought a creature as ravishing as you.”

Renathal was flattered by his words, vainglory manifesting as a flush in his cheeks.

It was common knowledge that Denathrius adored him above all others, whatever judicious claims to the contrary he might make. As much as Renathal and the other Venthyr liked to pretend they did not see it, to ignore the truth was a wrong-deed in its own right, because every soul in the afterlife knew that his Sire loved him in a way that teetered on the edge of blasphemous. It is was a love that was too deep, too good, and too seductive, and yes it was dangerous and yes, it was merciless, but at the same time there was nothing that could compare to the desperation in the gestures he made to compensate. The complete surrender. The cilice. The whip.

Renathal’s own cock was positively aching to think of it, the space between his navel and his knees a sprawling void hungering for something more. He moved the hand not holding the horn, and thrust two of his fingers into Denatrius’ mouth. A part of him prepared to feel the pain of a bite, but when the only thing that came was a muffled groan he let the tiny kernel of trust in his heart billow and spread, sinking deeper into his own enthrallment as he pressed those fingers hard against the pillow of a soft, wet tongue. Denathrius gagged, an easy reflex to trigger, and his eyes slid shut as the last crumbling buttress of his pride gave way. Renathal picked up the fragments, his confidence bolstered by his Master’s submission. He jerked Denathrius’ head back with the leverage of his horn. The pressure of his foot became grinding, and Denathrius gasped. Paroxysms of pleasure smeared over his face.

He had such a beautiful face.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Renathal removed his toe tip and jerked Denathrius’ head back down forcibly. His free hand fumbled open the laces of his pants, and trembling fingers invited his Sire to pay his atonement. Renathal felt his own trespasses swirling in him, a primal response to the heat of lips wrapping around his cock. Sometimes, late in the days, when soirees and dinners and dances past midnight began to still and bleed away, Renathal had wondered why his Master had chosen to make his pets like this. Why he had formed them with flesh that yielded to desire. Surely, perfect beings devoid of sin ought to be immune to that?

If Prince Renathal ever became the King of anything, he thought he might not make those same mistakes again. He dared not think of such things too often, though - he notion was indecent, just like the sensation of his Master paying his dues. Denathrius’ submission was surreal, in a special way that reminded Renathal of how the inversion of mere moments was not the same thing as tearing a crown of horns and brambles from atop a holy head. And yet...

Maybe he could be God someday, too. The sensation of this mouth was not going to be enough atonement, forever.

Renathal pushed his head away, releasing his horn from his grip, and nudged his knee firmly against Denathrius’ broad, solid chest.

“Turn around, Sire. Take grip of the Chaise.”

With his head bowed, his Master scrambled to oblige, and his hooves clacked on the flagstones as he moved to position himself kneeling against the sole piece of furniture in the room. Denathrius gripped the edge of the thing so his nails split open the velvet cushioning, and the muscles of his back flexed beneath a rippling terrain of scar tissue. Most of his wounds had been put there by his own volition, but the vast hand-sized pits behind his shoulder blades were ugly, sensitive, and more ancient than even Renathal was. Renathal did not know and would not ask from whence they came. His shoulders were distant, shelves for the burden of a universe, and when his hair slid forward to pool on the chaise Denathrius could see the back of his neck. He had a tiny cowlick, small like Renathal’s pinky finger, nestled there against his skin.

Renathal steeled himself, stilling his shaking hand, and moved to stand behind him so his shadow fell across the valley of his Master’s spine.

“Your confession is accepted,” He said steadily. “I’ve passed my judgement, and have decided two lashes will suffice for your atonement.”

“Only two?” Denathrius tilted his head, his voice cracking with a tension that bordered on hysteria.

“Three, then.”

Renathal removed his crop from his belt loop, and leaned over to place a steadying hand against the curve of his Master's behind. His length brushed lightly along the crevasse of his ass, and his hand trembled still as he raised his crop and prepared to feel the shudder of impact ricochet through the space between them. His leg nudged the back of the cilice on Denathrius’ thigh, and his Master groaned lowly at the bite of it.

“ _One_ ,”

Renathal delivered the first strike, and it cracked like a mirror shattering to pieces and in front of him. Denathrius shuddered. The lash brought a welt to his skin, but did not break it. Renathal set his jaw, and counted the next through gritted teeth.

“ _Two,_ ”

This strike cut deeper, bringing forth a narrow river of ichor from the sinews beneath his skin. Denathrius cursed in an archaic tongue, spoke a whispered prayer for mercy and a request for redemption for himself, and his children. Renathal didn’t know to whom he was speaking but he knew it was not to him. His sire was never so vulnerable, as he was like this, and the realisation raised a surge of something strange and vengeful in his chest. Something that made him wish he could administer more than just three lashes.

“You want to be a martyr for your children by purging your sin?” he asked. “Then let me purge my sin, too.”

He brought the last strike with all his strength. Denathrius gasped, and the tail end shattered into a weak sob. The index of his ages was spilling from his back now, dripping over his sides and pooling on the flagstones below them. Renathal cast his crop aside, before reaching out his hand to touch the slits that cut deep into his flesh. There was nothing he wanted more in the cosmos than to fuck him, now, and with his body bowed and trembling Renathal could feel that Denathrius was ready for it too. The air was thick with the manifestation of his want. Already knowing it would come, Denathrius kept clear amber oil on the shelf by the chaise. Renathal retrieved it, coated his length, and pored the rest of the bottle over the small of his Master's back. It flowed into the furrow of his ass, aided by the rub of Renathal’s cock.

The first welcoming give of his body sent a shiver of pleasure over Renathal’s shoulders, and when he pierced him Denathrius moaned, a low, quiet _yes_.

Fucking his Master was a feverish, addictive experience – a rare taste of the fruit most forbidden. Renathal knew he was chosen by virtue of his devotion, and that Denathrius was buying the prince’s fidelity with an offering of his bared throat. Renathal had no qualms with feeding on him - Denathrius shuddered under the press of hips, and his body was always hot and welcoming and sweet on Renathal’s cock. There was no fruit sweeter in all the afterlife, than the fruit of his vice, and it was rich enough for Renathal to grow drunk on it once it began to rot in his hands. Pleasure flooded him, an onslaught of sensation and power twisting together in a coiled, searing rope, and it was the perfect tie to yolk him to a twin soul. Equally holy. Equally defiled. Denathrius pressed back on him, his length between his legs leaking onto the floor, and one thick arm reached between his thighs to stroke himself, too. Knowing he touched himself like this always made Renathal feel weak kneed, overwhelmed by the allure of the corporeal and the profane. Again, that question rose in him.

How was it that perfect beings might suffer the ache of carnal desire? Surely, an image of the ideal ought not have such a glaring weakness?

Unless such hedonism was no weakness, really.

Denathrius finished quickly, with a low, strangled moan, and Renathal lost his pace for a moment as the pleasure building in his loins began to overflow. The tension holding him together was fragile, like the translucent silk that hung in drapes from the windows, and as his body betrayed him he shuddered his own gasp, losing himself for a glorious moment and forgetting his misgivings. He never could believe the glory of release, when he was not experiencing it firsthand, and as sublime as the memory would always be the reality was transcendent, eluding recollection.

Beneath him, Denathrius panted harshly, his back still smeared with gore and grace. Renathal looked down upon him, the realization striking with a disturbing clarity just like it always did; The only reason Denathrius named sin was to control the things he hated in himself. He had shackled them all with the bindings of his complex, and whether it was intentional it mattered not, because he had inflicted upon them all the knowledge of the poles of right and wrong. Perhaps it was this cruel act of knowledge, which was his greatest failing of all.

Renathal loved him still, of course, in the way he loved the blurred and broken like that separated suffering and ecstasy, but sometimes he thought his Master’s guilt weighed more than any sinstone.


End file.
